Tatterhood Read Free

‘no matter how grand.’
    Curious, she went into the parlour. As she went, the bird twittered to itself – alone and echoing under the rafters – ‘Be bold, sweet maid, but not too bold.’
    The parlour, too, was every bit as grand as her sweetheart had promised. There were decorations on every beam and carvings on the posts; there was gilt around every panel, glass in every pane, and glinting pewter plates, row upon row, lining the walls.
    But the floor was scraped and battered, and the furniture shuddered as she passed.
    She crossed the parlour and went through another door to a bedchamber beyond. As she went, the bird called again – a still, small voice from the kitchen – ‘Be bold, sweet maid, but not too bold.’
    The room was massed with chests. They were smooth with age and smelled sharp with resin. Dragging out the heavy drawers, the girl found them full of mugs, candlesticks and plates, all silverware and gold, jumbled and in disorder.
    â€˜Stained with the palms of the hands that have held them,’ she said, ‘and with the wine that once filled them.’
    â€˜Be bold, sweet maid, but not too bold,’ chimed the bird.
    The bride-to-be went into the next chamber, where there were piles upon piles of gowns. They were flung across tables and banked in drifts over the beds. The wool was more evenly woven, and the lace more rare between the bride’s wondering fingers, than any she had known. But there were blots, as if from tears, on the lace; and the cloth, though strong, was ripped and torn.
    Far back in the house, the bird shrilled from its cage, ‘Be bold, sweet maid, but not too bold!’
    The girl went on. At first, when she entered the third room, she saw only tubs and pails. They were painted and clean, their handles were carved, and they were set in rows as neat as a dairy.
    But when she looked closer, each cask was full to the brim; jellied and black, with blood.
    The bird shrieked. The pewter twittered. The mugs hummed in their chests.
    â€˜But surely it’s only horse-blood,’ the girl decided, ‘clotting for black pudding.’
    She went on.
    But where the third room was neat and ordered, the fourth was a shambles. Corpses and skeletons littered the room – scattered and mauled, strewn and tangled.
    The girl yelled. The bird screamed. The windows rattled.
    She tried to run, but got only as far as the blood-buckets.
    â€˜Turn back, turn back!’ the bird shrieked from its cage. ‘Dive under the bed! Here he comes!’
    She stumbled back amongst the bodies, dropped to the floor and scrambled beneath the bed – deep in dust and bones – until she lay pressed against the farthest wall.

    Footsteps sounded louder and louder through the house. Suddenly her betrothed burst into the room, dragging a young woman behind him by the gold of her hair. She was wailing and pleading, begging for mercy, but her tears made no difference.
    The man ripped everything from her – her gold, her clothes, her very life. He tore at it all, and all came away except a gold band on her finger which wouldn’t budge no matter how he clawed. So he drew his knife and chopped, hacking with such force that the finger flew off and rolled under the bed.
    Reaching out, the girl took the finger and hid it in the folds of her skirt, ring and all.
    The man bent down and fumbled in the darkness under the bed. As he groped, his hand touched her skirt. She neither blinked nor breathed; he swept the fabric aside with a curse and kept fumbling for the missing finger.
    â€˜It is too far under,’ he muttered at last. ‘I’ll find it in the morning when it’s light.’
    So the man went out, leaving his bride-to-be alone beneath the bed, where she watched and waited, breathing amongst the bones, the long night through.
    But in the morning, instead of returning for the finger, the man went out.
    The girl waited. She waited until